Sir Thomas’s return made a striking change in the ways of
the family, independent of Lovers’ Vows. Under his
government, Mansfield was an altered place. Some members of their
society sent away, and the spirits of many others saddened—
it was all sameness and gloom compared with the past— a
sombre family party rarely enlivened. There was little intercourse
with the Parsonage. Sir Thomas, drawing back from intimacies in
general, was particularly disinclined, at this time, for any
engagements but in one quarter. The Rushworths were the only
addition to his own domestic circle which he could solicit.

Edmund did not wonder that such should be his father’s
feelings, nor could he regret anything but the exclusion of the
Grants. “But they,” he observed to Fanny, “have a
claim. They seem to belong to us; they seem to be part of
ourselves. I could wish my father were more sensible of their very
great attention to my mother and sisters while he was away. I am
afraid they may feel themselves neglected. But the truth is, that
my father hardly knows them. They had not been here a twelvemonth
when he left England. If he knew them better, he would value their
society as it deserves; for they are in fact exactly the sort of
people he would like. We are sometimes a little in want of
animation among ourselves: my sisters seem out of spirits, and Tom
is certainly not at his ease. Dr. and Mrs. Grant would enliven us,
and make our evenings pass away with more enjoyment even to my
father.”

“Do you think so?” said Fanny: “in my opinion,
my uncle would not like any addition. I think he values the
very quietness you speak of, and that the repose of his own family
circle is all he wants. And it does not appear to me that we are
more serious than we used to be—I mean before my uncle went
abroad. As well as I can recollect, it was always much the same.
There was never much laughing in his presence; or, if there is any
difference, it is not more, I think, than such an absence has a
tendency to produce at first. There must be a sort of shyness; but
I cannot recollect that our evenings formerly were ever merry,
except when my uncle was in town. No young people’s are, I
suppose, when those they look up to are at home”.

“I believe you are right, Fanny,” was his reply,
after a short consideration. “I believe our evenings are
rather returned to what they were, than assuming a new character.
The novelty was in their being lively. Yet, how strong the
impression that only a few weeks will give! I have been feeling as
if we had never lived so before.”

“I suppose I am graver than other people,” said
Fanny. “The evenings do not appear long to me. I love to hear
my uncle talk of the West Indies. I could listen to him for an hour
together. It entertains me more than many other things have
done; but then I am unlike other people, I dare say.”

“Why should you dare say that?” (smiling).
“Do you want to be told that you are only unlike other people
in being more wise and discreet? But when did you, or anybody, ever
get a compliment from me, Fanny? Go to my father if you want to be
complimented. He will satisfy you. Ask your uncle what he thinks,
and you will hear compliments enough: and though they may be
chiefly on your person, you must put up with it, and trust to his
seeing as much beauty of mind in time.”

Such language was so new to Fanny that it quite embarrassed
her.

“Your uncle thinks you very pretty, dear Fanny— and
that is the long and the short of the matter. Anybody but myself
would have made something more of it, and anybody but you would
resent that you had not been thought very pretty before; but the
truth is, that your uncle never did admire you till now—and
now he does. Your complexion is so improved!—and you have
gained so much countenance!—and your figure—nay, Fanny,
do not turn away about it—it is but an uncle. If you cannot
bear an uncle’s admiration, what is to become of you? You
must really begin to harden yourself to the idea of being worth
looking at. You must try not to mind growing up into a pretty
woman.”

“Oh! don’t talk so, don’t talk so,”
cried Fanny, distressed by more feelings than he was aware of; but
seeing that she was distressed, he had done with the subject, and
only added more seriously—

“Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with you in every
respect; and I only wish you would talk to him more. You are one of
those who are too silent in the evening circle.”

“But I do talk to him more than I used. I am sure I do.
Did not you hear me ask him about the slave–trade last
night?”

“I did—and was in hopes the question would be
followed up by others. It would have pleased your uncle to be
inquired of farther.”

“And I longed to do it—but there was such a dead
silence! And while my cousins were sitting by without speaking a
word, or seeming at all interested in the subject, I did not
like— I thought it would appear as if I wanted to set myself
off at their expense, by shewing a curiosity and pleasure in his
information which he must wish his own daughters to
feel.”

“Miss Crawford was very right in what she said of you the
other day: that you seemed almost as fearful of notice and praise
as other women were of neglect. We were talking of you at the
Parsonage, and those were her words. She has great discernment. I
know nobody who distinguishes characters better. For so young a
woman it is remarkable! She certainly understands you better
than you are understood by the greater part of those who have known
you so long; and with regard to some others, I can perceive, from
occasional lively hints, the unguarded expressions of the moment,
that she could define many as accurately, did not delicacy
forbid it. I wonder what she thinks of my father! She must admire
him as a fine–looking man, with most gentlemanlike,
dignified, consistent manners; but perhaps, having seen him so
seldom, his reserve may be a little repulsive. Could they be much
together, I feel sure of their liking each other. He would enjoy
her liveliness and she has talents to value his powers. I wish they
met more frequently! I hope she does not suppose there is any
dislike on his side.”

“She must know herself too secure of the regard of all the
rest of you,” said Fanny, with half a sigh, “to have
any such apprehension. And Sir Thomas’s wishing just at first
to be only with his family, is so very natural, that she can argue
nothing from that. After a little while, I dare say, we shall be
meeting again in the same sort of way, allowing for the difference
of the time of year.”

“This is the first October that she has passed in the
country since her infancy. I do not call Tunbridge or Cheltenham
the country; and November is a still more serious month, and I can
see that Mrs. Grant is very anxious for her not finding Mansfield
dull as winter comes on.”

Fanny could have said a great deal, but it was safer to say
nothing, and leave untouched all Miss Crawford’s
resources— her accomplishments, her spirits, her importance,
her friends, lest it should betray her into any observations
seemingly unhandsome. Miss Crawford’s kind opinion of herself
deserved at least a grateful forbearance, and she began to talk of
something else.

“To–morrow, I think, my uncle dines at Sotherton,
and you and Mr. Bertram too. We shall be quite a small party at
home. I hope my uncle may continue to like Mr.
Rushworth.”

“That is impossible, Fanny. He must like him less after
to–morrow’s visit, for we shall be five hours in his
company. I should dread the stupidity of the day, if there were not
a much greater evil to follow— the impression it must leave
on Sir Thomas. He cannot much longer deceive himself. I am sorry
for them all, and would give something that Rushworth and Maria had
never met.”

In this quarter, indeed, disappointment was impending over Sir
Thomas. Not all his good–will for Mr. Rushworth, not all Mr.
Rushworth’s deference for him, could prevent him from soon
discerning some part of the truth— that Mr. Rushworth was an
inferior young man, as ignorant in business as in books, with
opinions in general unfixed, and without seeming much aware of it
himself.

He had expected a very different son–in–law; and
beginning to feel grave on Maria’s account, tried to
understand her feelings. Little observation there was
necessary to tell him that indifference was the most favourable
state they could be in. Her behaviour to Mr. Rushworth was careless
and cold. She could not, did not like him. Sir Thomas resolved to
speak seriously to her. Advantageous as would be the alliance, and
long standing and public as was the engagement, her happiness must
not be sacrificed to it. Mr. Rushworth had, perhaps, been accepted
on too short an acquaintance, and, on knowing him better, she was
repenting.

With solemn kindness Sir Thomas addressed her: told her his
fears, inquired into her wishes, entreated her to be open and
sincere, and assured her that every inconvenience should be braved,
and the connexion entirely given up, if she felt herself unhappy in
the prospect of it. He would act for her and release her. Maria had
a moment’s struggle as she listened, and only a
moment’s: when her father ceased, she was able to give her
answer immediately, decidedly, and with no apparent agitation. She
thanked him for his great attention, his paternal kindness, but he
was quite mistaken in supposing she had the smallest desire of
breaking through her engagement, or was sensible of any change of
opinion or inclination since her forming it. She had the highest
esteem for Mr. Rushworth’s character and disposition, and
could not have a doubt of her happiness with him.

Sir Thomas was satisfied; too glad to be satisfied, perhaps, to
urge the matter quite so far as his judgment might have dictated to
others. It was an alliance which he could not have relinquished
without pain; and thus he reasoned. Mr. Rushworth was young enough
to improve. Mr. Rushworth must and would improve in good society;
and if Maria could now speak so securely of her happiness with him,
speaking certainly without the prejudice, the blindness of love,
she ought to be believed. Her feelings, probably, were not acute;
he had never supposed them to be so; but her comforts might not be
less on that account; and if she could dispense with seeing her
husband a leading, shining character, there would certainly be
everything else in her favour. A well–disposed young woman,
who did not marry for love, was in general but the more attached to
her own family; and the nearness of Sotherton to Mansfield must
naturally hold out the greatest temptation, and would, in all
probability, be a continual supply of the most amiable and innocent
enjoyments. Such and such–like were the reasonings of Sir
Thomas, happy to escape the embarrassing evils of a rupture, the
wonder, the reflections, the reproach that must attend it; happy to
secure a marriage which would bring him such an addition of
respectability and influence, and very happy to think anything of
his daughter’s disposition that was most favourable for the
purpose.

To her the conference closed as satisfactorily as to him. She
was in a state of mind to be glad that she had secured her fate
beyond recall: that she had pledged herself anew to Sotherton; that
she was safe from the possibility of giving Crawford the triumph of
governing her actions, and destroying her prospects; and retired in
proud resolve, determined only to behave more cautiously to Mr.
Rushworth in future, that her father might not be again suspecting
her.

Had Sir Thomas applied to his daughter within the first three or
four days after Henry Crawford’s leaving Mansfield, before
her feelings were at all tranquillised, before she had given up
every hope of him, or absolutely resolved on enduring his rival,
her answer might have been different; but after another three or
four days, when there was no return, no letter, no message, no
symptom of a softened heart, no hope of advantage from separation,
her mind became cool enough to seek all the comfort that pride and
self revenge could give.

Henry Crawford had destroyed her happiness, but he should not
know that he had done it; he should not destroy her credit, her
appearance, her prosperity, too. He should not have to think of her
as pining in the retirement of Mansfield for him, rejecting
Sotherton and London, independence and splendour, for his
sake. Independence was more needful than ever; the want of it at
Mansfield more sensibly felt. She was less and less able to endure
the restraint which her father imposed. The liberty which his
absence had given was now become absolutely necessary. She must
escape from him and Mansfield as soon as possible, and find
consolation in fortune and consequence, bustle and the world, for a
wounded spirit. Her mind was quite determined, and varied not.

To such feelings delay, even the delay of much preparation,
would have been an evil, and Mr. Rushworth could hardly be more
impatient for the marriage than herself. In all the important
preparations of the mind she was complete: being prepared for
matrimony by an hatred of home, restraint, and tranquillity; by the
misery of disappointed affection, and contempt of the man she was
to marry. The rest might wait. The preparations of new carriages
and furniture might wait for London and spring, when her own taste
could have fairer play.

The principals being all agreed in this respect, it soon
appeared that a very few weeks would be sufficient for such
arrangements as must precede the wedding.

Mrs. Rushworth was quite ready to retire, and make way for the
fortunate young woman whom her dear son had selected; and very
early in November removed herself, her maid, her footman, and her
chariot, with true dowager propriety, to Bath, there to parade over
the wonders of Sotherton in her evening parties; enjoying them as
thoroughly, perhaps, in the animation of a card–table, as she
had ever done on the spot; and before the middle of the same month
the ceremony had taken place which gave Sotherton another
mistress.

It was a very proper wedding. The bride was elegantly dressed;
the two bridesmaids were duly inferior; her father gave her away;
her mother stood with salts in her hand, expecting to be agitated;
her aunt tried to cry; and the service was impressively read by Dr.
Grant. Nothing could be objected to when it came under the
discussion of the neighbourhood, except that the carriage which
conveyed the bride and bridegroom and Julia from the
church–door to Sotherton was the same chaise which Mr.
Rushworth had used for a twelvemonth before. In everything else the
etiquette of the day might stand the strictest investigation.

It was done, and they were gone. Sir Thomas felt as an anxious
father must feel, and was indeed experiencing much of the agitation
which his wife had been apprehensive of for herself, but had
fortunately escaped. Mrs. Norris, most happy to assist in the
duties of the day, by spending it at the Park to support her
sister’s spirits, and drinking the health of Mr. and Mrs.
Rushworth in a supernumerary glass or two, was all joyous delight;
for she had made the match; she had done everything; and no one
would have supposed, from her confident triumph, that she had ever
heard of conjugal infelicity in her life, or could have the
smallest insight into the disposition of the niece who had been
brought up under her eye.

The plan of the young couple was to proceed, after a few days,
to Brighton, and take a house there for some weeks. Every public
place was new to Maria, and Brighton is almost as gay in winter as
in summer. When the novelty of amusement there was over, it would
be time for the wider range of London.

Julia was to go with them to Brighton. Since rivalry between the
sisters had ceased, they had been gradually recovering much of
their former good understanding; and were at least sufficiently
friends to make each of them exceedingly glad to be with the other
at such a time. Some other companion than Mr. Rushworth was of the
first consequence to his lady; and Julia was quite as eager for
novelty and pleasure as Maria, though she might not have struggled
through so much to obtain them, and could better bear a subordinate
situation.

Their departure made another material change at Mansfield, a
chasm which required some time to fill up. The family circle became
greatly contracted; and though the Miss Bertrams had latterly added
little to its gaiety, they could not but be missed. Even their
mother missed them; and how much more their tenderhearted cousin,
who wandered about the house, and thought of them, and felt for
them, with a degree of affectionate regret which they had never
done much to deserve!